work, as you know," he panted. "I'm
doing my best to show you that I haven't forgotten what I learned over
at Stoneport, and to back up what I promised you and the commissioners
after I gave you the tip as to what could be done with that hill. Much
obliged to you for allowing me all the dynamite I need. But, demmit!
I haven't got anybody with brains to help me handle it. It's notional
stuff, sir. It hates a blasted fool." He pointed a finger at the men
across the pit. Their striped suits suggested the nomenclature he used
"Those potato bugs will do something to blow us to blazes sure'n there's
air in a doughnut hole!"

The warden showed his concern. "Don't you know of some man who is used
to dynamite?"

"That ain't it, sir. A fool gets used to it, till he's too cussed
familiar. I want a man with brains enough to be polite to it."

The warden, making a general survey of the scene, beheld Vaniman. "A man
who knows enough to be a bank cashier ought to have brains, Wagg. How
about Number Two-Seven-Nine?"

Mr. Wagg contemplated Vaniman and took plenty of time for thought. "I'll
try him," he said, without enthusiasm. "I hadn't thought of him--but
I'll try him."

Directed to do so by the warden, Vaniman went to his new work with Wagg.
The latter exhibited no especial symptoms of satisfaction at securing
such a helper. He told the young man that his particular care would be
the dynamite--to handle the boxes, store them in the little shed, unpack
the sticks, and follow the drills, planting the rendrock ready for the
blast that was to topple the hillock into the pit. Mr. Wagg explained to
the warden, after a time, that the dynamite could be planted more safely
and to better advantage when the drillers were off the job. Therefore,
Vaniman was detailed to help during the noon hour while the prisoners
were at dinner.

But, even when they were alone together, day after day, Mr. Wagg
maintained his reticence. Once in a while he did wink at Vaniman. The
winks grew more frequent when Mr. Wagg began to connect up the dynamite
pockets in the hill with wires. One afternoon, near knocking-off time,
he stepped into the shed where Vaniman was covering up his boxes for the
night. "When you leave your cell in the morning," said the man who
had promised freedom, "hide in your pockets all the letters and little
chickle-fixings you intend to carry away with you. You won't be going
back into that cell again, Number Two-Seven-Nine."

C